


The Job Description

by pyrommetries (pyrorocketeer)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Gerard POV, Minor Character Death, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 17:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9134662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrorocketeer/pseuds/pyrommetries
Summary: Talon could never catch him. He’s just so damn good at his job.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FishSlayer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FishSlayer/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I don’t even play Overwatch.  
> If this borders on AU, you know why.  
> All I used was the wiki description, and the ages elude me.  
> Idk, I'm also reluctant to post this. This is my first fic for Overwatch and it's a gift for FishSlayer.  
> Fish is amazing. She writes amazing Dark Souls fanfiction. Happy new year fish, and happy new year everyone else!

He peels off a boot when he turns the handle and hops in. The door was open. He half expects her to fling herself at him. He is ready to twirl her around. They’d laugh together, she’d kiss his nose, and he’d run his hands through her hair and comb out the ends. He’d brag about how _they_ couldn’t get him this time.

She would slap his arm and tell him not to get too over his head.  

The cold air greets him instead.

“I’m so hungry that I could eat a horse, _ten_ horses.” He sighs. He unstraps his jacket and heaves a sigh. The living room was cold. He stepped between the doors. “Amélie? Are you home?”

The chill gives him goosebumps.

She never leaves things open. The draft comes from somewhere in the house. It’s freezing outside. So he climbs upstairs and looks around for her, twice. He steps into her bedroom. The window is open in the bedroom.  

Then he calls her number.

The floral duvet muffles the sound of the ring. It vibrates on the floor, underneath the duvet which spills on the floor, next to the strewn pillows. He lifts it and picks up her phone.

His name flashes on screen.

_Gérard calling…_

He swipes the screen.

There’s a hastily written message in the open notes app, before it cuts off.

_Talon. Ils sont ici—_

.

.

.

Thing is, most people in his field don’t marry. If they do, they marry someone who knows what the field is like. It’s just an unspoken understanding that the work is _dangerous,_ and if things happen, they accept it and move on. It’s part of the job description.

For Gérard, it was different. Talon could never catch him. He’s just so damn good at his job.

He married a ballet dancer. It was love at first sight, he told his friends. She looked like a damn flower. She’s the daughter of a rich family. She loves poetry and history. It’s a story of the princess and the knight.

And when she danced, oh when she danced—

She’s just so damn good on stage.

Oh! But that’s not all! She does _competitive_ shooting, he glances at Ana Amari, and she really admires Ana.

Ana is at least thirty years his senior and good friend. She sips her coffee and sighs.

“Admiration for my prowess to kill people? A competitive shooter nonetheless? Gérard, I am nothing to admire.”

Ana is a mother. She has a nineteen-year-old daughter, and they don’t get along. Fareeha wanted to join the military. Ana didn’t want her to. But Fareeha did it anyway.

“I know you love her, Gérard,” she says. “But she’s not like you. Marriage is not a bed of roses or a walk in a park. You can’t work through everything together.”

Fareeha and Ana don’t talk. Gérard heard her yell at Morrison for “filling Fareeha’s head with garbage about heroism, pomp and glory” and “I _fought_ so Fareeha wouldn’t have to!”

Which is why Morrison is not here, and why Ana tightens her fingers around her cup when they mention him.

“I know,” Gérard tells her.

Gabriel shrugs. “Cheers to the happy couple.” He clinks his glass with his. “Lacroix always gets away. He is one of the best of the best.”

Gérard grins.

He tells Ana that he’s spoken to Amélie about it. She accepts him. She also told him that it's _her_ choice to marry someone like him.

There’s no harm going to come to her because of his job, he says. He’ll handle it. They’ll work through it.

Ana looks him in the eye and says nothing.

.

.

.

The first person he calls is Ana. She listens to him and tells him that it’s going to be okay.

“We’ll find her, Gérard.”

“Yeah.”

“Gérard,” she says.

“Yeah?”

“Get out of there, alright? Take your things, her things, and leave. They know where you live. You know what to do.”

“Yeah.”

“Gérard?” she asks. “I know it's hard. But you need to wait. We’ll find her.”

And Ana means, “Love makes people do stupid things.”

That’s where the line cuts.

.

.

.

They do find her. But he wasn’t part of the mission. He wasn’t even aware of it until Morrison claps him on the shoulder.

“We found your wife, Lacroix.”

“I…” Whatever he was about to say, he doesn’t. He tries to make his way past Morrison. Morrison grabs his shoulder again.

“You can take some time off.”

The door creaks open, and he steps into a dark living room. Someone’s there. Gérard switches on the light. She sits on the couch and stares out the window at the snow-covered roofs. It’s been two months. Her hair’s longer. She’s thinner and paler. She wears the loose pajamas. Her favorite pink, floral pattern.

He whispers, “Amélie?”

She turns to look at him.

“Gérard?” she asks.

There’s no smile on her face. It’s the middle of winter, the ground is frozen, and so is her face. He tiptoes over to her, reaches out and holds her close. He runs his hands through her hair.

“ _Non_ ,” she says. “ce n'est pas de votre faute.”

He apologizes and apologizes. His tears wet her shoulder. He can feel the bones underneath her nightgown when he holds her.

.

.

.

And Ana might have been right. You can’t work through some things together.

But she’s wrong about one thing.

Marriage was a bed of roses, but with thorns. He got caught right in the middle of the thorn bush. He knew he’d get caught some day, but not like this.

It’s bittersweet, right Ana?

So she stands over him with a handgun. It’s the one he hides inside the vase, in case of emergency. Her nightgown stains when she leans over.

She holds his handgun with shivering hands.

It would have been better if it was a clean shot. Instant death. It would be easier for both of them.

But he reaches forward to caress her wet cheeks, and he slides his thumb over her cheekbones.

But Ana? he thinks.Why complain if the rose bush has thorns, when you could be happy that the thorn bush has roses.  

So Gérard Lacroix was finally caught by Talon, Gabriel can tell people in the future, and he was a brave hero. The best of the best. But too bad he was murdered by his wife who was used by Talon as a pawn. Betrayal is always part of the job description.

“S-sorry,” she whispers.

“It’s okay,” he says.

“ _No,_ Gérard. I don’t know…I don’t know what I’m doing...I’m so _sorry. Stay with me!_ Stay! N-nnon...”

He knows.

“Adieu, chérie.”

**_“GÉRARD!”_ **

.

.

.

Years later, Talon agent Widowmaker wakes up in the middle of the night. Her heart beats faster. She remembers his blood on her skin, and on her silky floral nightgown. She runs a hand through her sweaty hair and brushes it off at the tips. She then grips her blanket.

Adrenaline courses through her veins.

“Gérard…”

Because a spider never feels more alive than at the time of the kill.

.

.

.

And a single red rose wilts on his grave.


End file.
